57

Parkhotel Koblenz, Schillerstrasse 5, Munich, Germany

September 19, 2009

7:55 p.m.

The Mercedes pulled up outside the hotel entrance.

Graf stopped the car, catching Quinn’s arm to prevent him from getting out.

“Some things. You need to check out of this hotel. Your French friend will have arrived in Munich by now and if he has the right connections he’ll quickly find you in a hotel like this. Nightly guest rosters are easily hacked and I am sure you innocently checked in under your own name and passport. Well, that has to stop now. You need to keep moving, be elusive. Go in, pack everything onto your bike and I will send Dirk by at nine p.m. He drives a black BMW M5. Just follow it to my warehouse and store your bike there. After, he will take you on to my apartment. You will be safer there.”

The collector pulled out a small tin from inside his attaché case and handed it to Quinn. “In the meantime, like your good Mr. Crowley, you should probably have this.”

Inside the tin was a small black pistol. Quinn quickly closed it and thrust it back at Graf. “I don’t need that thing. It looks more like a bloody starter pistol than a weapon anyway.”

Graf squeezed Neil’s forearm still tighter. “Believe me, Neil Quinn, if you need to use it, you’ll soon be running as fast as you can. It’s a Mauser WTP. Luftwaffe pilots used to keep them in their flight boots to defend themselves if they were shot down. From what you have told me, you may well need to take it from your boot if Sarron catches up with you.”

Saying nothing more, Quinn pocketed the tin with its pistol.

“I need to go to my shop now to catch up with what Dirk has sold today. I’ll see you later.”

Quinn reached for the ice axe and opened his daypack to put the tin with the gun inside. Before he could get out of the car, Graf handed him the old Leica camera as well, saying, “Don’t forget this too. A souvenir of our day together perhaps?”

Taking the camera, Quinn left the car and went into the hotel, crouching from the rain that had replaced the snow on their drive back, cursing to himself that the last thing he wanted to do was go back out in it again on his motorcycle.

From the window of the crowded Istanbul Café across the street, Dmitri Vishnevsky watched Quinn’s return.

Calling his brother Oleg, Sarron immediately took the phone. Hearing that Quinn was back at the hotel and Graf had left, he said, “Good. Stay on him, Dmitri. Just as planned. Does he have the ice axe with him?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Remember, I need Quinn and I need that axe. As soon as we have got the story from the antiques dealer, we will join you and go in later when Quinn is sleeping. We have got to wait, but there’s time enough. We’ll do one at a time. Just stay on him, Dmitri.”